


Where No One Goes

by CanisMajor1234



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Smut, not entirely canon compliant, sam with real wings, those two tags are kinda related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7338670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanisMajor1234/pseuds/CanisMajor1234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This time, when Sam's wings snap down, Bucky's feet completely leave the ground. Another, and another, and Bucky can feel the strain of Sam's muscles where his hand rests between the Falcon's wings. There are muscles there that Bucky doesn't know, probably can't name, definitely doesn't have. Sam is a different kind of creature, powerful, special. </p>
<p>(Beautiful, Bucky thinks, but pushes it away. Both of them are too broken to know what beautiful looks like, beyond "less broken than they are.")"</p>
<p>The war is over. It's time now for healing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where No One Goes

_ "Never regret thy fall, O Icarus of fearless flight." _

 

Wilson's wings are broad and long, dark and dappled brown that lightens to a crisp white at the end of every feather. They're more than powerful enough to lift the man off the ground in a single downward stroke, more than flexible (and durable) enough to execute hairpin turns at the kind of speeds that Bucky still sometimes finds surprising.

 

(That does not mean that they are not delicate, though. According to Steve, Wilson spent nearly a week grounded after Bucky very nearly pulled the wing out of it's socket, before he was forced back into the field by necessity. The guilt coiled heavy among the shame already resting in Bucky's stomach; it seemed that there wasn't an Avenger's life that he had no affected in some horrible way.)

 

Wilson’s wings flex for flight, but it’s really more of a poorly-controlled fall. His wing still isn’t healed, and it  _ has _ to cause him pain. Bucky’s fat ass landing on top of Sam certainly does less damage than that Spiderman kid could have caused, though. Silver lining.

 

The Falcon rolls up quickly, wings flared and ruffled as he puts himself between Bucky and anything else that might try to hurt them, and Bucky can’t help but compare the man to the animal: fiercely loyal, violently protective. 

 

(“You couldn’t have done that earlier?”)

 

(“I hate you.”)

 

Bucky puts himself between Tony and Steve and gets his arm blown off for it. He lets it happen, because this whole war is  _ pointless. _ The Avengers are a  _ family, _ Bucky recognizes that, and if it means they don't fight anymore Bucky is more than willing to give up an arm (and maybe even a leg) for it. That's what this is about, after all. It's not about the Accords. It's not about the power struggle between Steve and Tony. It's not even completely about Bucky. It's about the Avengers, as a family, a dynamic that Steve tried and failed to introduce Bucky into because he was too fucking  _ stubborn _ to _ talk _ to them about it. 

 

Tony is surprised. Steve is horrified. Bucky just pressed his palm against where he can feel the remains of his arm sparking and shorting out and asks for this all to stop. He won't beg, won't grovel at anyone's feet, but Bucky refuses to be the reason that Steve loses the one good thing he's found in these new times. 

 

The room Bucky is kept in at Stark Tower is meant to contain the Hulk, so he doesn't think twice about slamming his fist against the shatterproof plexiglass. His knuckles split and leave a smear of red on the glass. It hurts, but it's a pleasant kind of catharsis. When Bucky flicks the stiffness out of his bones, the wounds are already bright pink scars. 

 

"Well, you're certainly springy."

 

Bucky whirls around, startled and still humming for a fight. He tends to lash out with his left- stronger, tougher. But suddenly he'd faced with the glaring fact that there  _ isn't an arm there _ , just jagged and torn metal and burnt-out circuitry, and he just… stops.

 

PTSD. It's something Wilson knows well, Bucky is sure. The Falcon stands with his back to the door, wings folded neatly behind him, a pillar of gentle patience. He waits for Bucky to calm himself. Breathe in, breathe out. The pain isn't real, just a mechanical error, an electrical misfire. 

 

There’s no arm there, but it feels like Bucky's hand is clenched into a fist, and he can't uncurl his fingers. 

 

Wilson moves to sit closer to the middle of the room, a screwdriver in his hands that Bucky watches cautiously, and it's a few moments before Bucky can bring himself to join him. Bucky's balance is all wrong. He feels too strung out, too tense, and he almost pitches himself over trying to lower himself to the floor. Wilson doesn't offer to help. Bucky is grateful for that. 

 

"Banner says you might be more comfortable if we removed the rest of that arm," Wilson offers. He scoots a bit closer, leans in a bit, keeping the screwdriver in plain sight. His expression is open, honest, and Bucky can't help but nod when Wilson's hands stop in the air halfway to his shoulder. 

 

His arm has been removed a couple times before. The memories are vague and not very good and Bucky doesn't want to think about them. This is different, though. This is  _ Sam, _ with gentle hands that work screws and bolts and connections loose. It doesn't hurt. It just feels... Strange. Bucky had never really been without, not for this long. 

 

Piece by piece, what is left of the broken prosthetic falls away. Wilson is incredibly patient, never tearing or forcing anything. Tight seams that were smashed or melted together are worked apart without complaint. Pieces that are jammed or caught are separated with far more care than Bucky feels he deserves. 

 

Sam is the most interesting thing in the room, so Bucky tries to focus on him instead. He has a perfect view of his wings, from where he is, and he can’t deny that he’s curious. He’s never seen a human with wings before (at least, not in a way that he wants to remember). 

 

The seam between Sam’s wings and his back isn’t smooth; it’s raised slightly, scarred and covered in a thin layer of down and the occasional real feather. Sam’s clothes are tailored around his wings, in a way that suggests he’s had those wings his whole life. The stitches are mostly straight, but clearly done by hand, and something about the image of Sam tailoring his own clothes, careful and earnest to make his stitches as even as possible, makes Bucky want to chuckle. 

 

The last piece falls away with a jarring clang, and Bucky stares in mute despair at what was once his shoulder. He's never really taken a look at it, the grafting. It's completely metal, fused to his nervous system and anchored to his collarbone and spine. He remembers the surgery. He wishes he didn't. 

 

"We might have to fix a few of these," Wilson sighs, poking at some of the electrical ports. Bucky hisses, but stops himself from flinching away. It doesn't hurt, per se, but it does feel  _ weird _ . "I'm not very good with shit like this, but a few of these don't look right." He pokes at another port, which is definitely burnt out because  _ that one _ hurt. Wilson winces in apology and pulls his hand away, clearing his throat. "I'll talk to Banner about it, yeah? Maybe he'll know what to do about it."

 

Bucky helps Wilson pick up the metal, slowly, because he doesn't want him to leave. Sam has to, though, eventually.

 

And when he leaves, Bucky is left with nothing but his thoughts. 

 

They move him after a few weeks. It's a few weeks of building a tense trust between himself and the Avengers, a strained trust, but it's built on  _ communication _ , and that's what matters. Bucky would like to keep working at it, but they don't have a choice. The U.N. is discussing the Accords, and all that has happened has drawn the eyes of the  _ X-Men.  _ Worse, the U.S. Government would rather spend their time discussing their stance on the Winter Soldier rather than participate in the discussions that would change the lives of mutants and superheroes around the world. 

 

So he has to go. That's not really what upsets Bucky, though. He's still healing, that he understands. He's unstable and reliant, and he's afraid of being forced to heal alone: "alone", of course, meaning without Steve. There's nothing familiar about this new world, and Bucky craves that anchor. He doesn't, however, really have any choice in the matter. Steve needs to go speak before the U.N. and the U.S. government. Tony has managed to talk him down from war, into reason, at least according to Wilson, and Steve wants to do all he can to help the Avengers. To help  _ his family.  _

 

Bucky watches the quinjet fly off with a heavy heart. The Retreat is apparently something Banner made, for when one or more of the Avengers needs a little time alone. It's quiet and it's isolated and it's, most importantly, not in the U.S. Canada is cool and beautiful and Bucky finds himself not wanting any of it.

 

"You coming, Cryofreeze?" Wilson calls from the doorway. Bucky waits on the porch a few moments longer, until the quinjet in an indistinguishable dot on the horizon, before following the Falcon inside. 

 

When they fly together again, it's because they've spent the last three days keeping themselves and each other up at night. Bucky dreams silently, curled around himself on the couch, reminding himself who he is, where he is, what he is. Sam... It sounds like he's dying every time. 

 

Bucky is honestly terrified the first time it happens. Only a few days into their stay, and Bucky wakes to Sam screaming, thrashing in his sleep, his room a hurricane of feathers and paper from where his wings flail and beat in an attempt to fight of the malevolent phantoms. The bone of one catches Bucky unprepared under the chin when he goes to wake Wilson up. He has to resist the urge to bat it away like an annoying fly. 

 

(Wilson wakes up swinging when Bucky puts his hand on his shoulder. Bucky supposes that makes them even for the number of times that Bucky would have socked him in the face, had he had his arm.)

 

After about a week and a half of on and off sleep, Bucky stumbles into Sam's room at two in the morning, bleary-eyed and still reeling from waking up feeling like ice. It's too cold in the Retreat at night, especially when you sleep on the couch, and Wilson is warm and Bucky doesn't hesitate to curl against his side and press his cold feet against his calves. Wilson wakes with a sleepy grumble, but doesn't kick Bucky out. He just shifts, making room on the tiny bed for one more body.

 

Company helps, they find out quickly enough, and they find themselves more and more sharing space. They keep each other sane, attempt to keep each other healthy even as their sleep and eating schedules are suffering horribly from their shared trials; Bucky isn't entirely sure blueberry pancakes for dinner are appropriate even in this day and age, even if they'd only woken up a less than a half an hour ago. 

 

Sleeping in the same bed and hours spent in the kitchen trying to mimic cooking videos can only go so far. And that's how Bucky finds himself on his twenty-fifth lap around the pond before noon, Wilson flying overhead to give him more of a workout and stretch his muscles. Bucky isn't sure if the former is true, but the latter certainly is; nothing makes Sam twitchier than being locked in the house like a bird in a cage. 

 

The Retreat comes into sight at the end of night twenty-seven, and Bucky's legs burn and his lungs strain against his ribs, but it still feels like there's ice in his bones and Sam still has the hallowed look of a man who's seen a ghost and Bucky decides this just isn't working. They could, he supposes, go back inside. Dig the icecream out of the freezer, maybe. Watch comedies and laugh until they forget the shadows creeping up into their hearts, and then repeat the cycle when they inevitably wake up before the ass-crack of dawn the next morning. 

 

"Take me up there with you," Bucky says instead and, honestly, he hadn't put too much thought into it before he'd said it. In all reality, he isn't even sure how Sam is even capable of flight, much less if he was capable of flying while carrying another person. But Sam enjoys flying and is in desperate need of a challenge and Bucky...

 

Bucky just wants to know what it feels like. He wants to know what about it makes Sam smile like that when he comes down from a good flight. He wants to know what the clouds feel like, when he's not falling through them. 

 

At first, Bucky's not even sure they're going to get off the ground. The first downward stroke lifts Bucky up on his toes, but Sam lets them drop to adjust his hold- Bucky's arm tight around his chest, both of Sam's arm around Bucky's torso. Bucky shouldn't feel safe, trusting himself however many yards above the ground to the strength of another person. This is Sam, though. The Falcon. Bucky trusts him. 

 

This time, when Sam's wings snap down, Bucky's feet completely leave the ground. Another, and another, and Bucky can feel the strain of Sam's muscles where his hand rests between the Falcon's wings. There are muscles there that Bucky doesn't know, probably can't name, definitely doesn't have. Sam is a different kind of creature, powerful, special. 

 

( _ Beautiful, _ Bucky thinks, but pushes it away. Both of them are too broken to know what beautiful looks like, beyond "less broken than they are.")

 

(Touching a cloud feels like walking through mist. Bucky doesn't know any other way to describe it.)

 

They eat a semi-proper lunch, sandwiches cobbled together from wilting lettuce and bruised tomatoes and vaguely sour lunchmeat. They need to go to the store- Bucky's least favorite excursion out of the Retreat, honestly. Normal people, they look at Sam and there is fear and confusion and awe. They look at Bucky and there is... pity. And it makes his skin crawl. 

 

It has to be done, though, and they've developed a pretty good system, one trusting the other to get the other half of the list. Sam occasionally picks at Bucky's choices ("No one eats white American cheese anymore, old man."). Bucky is sometimes confused about why anyone would eat some of these more "modern" foods ("Sam, put the sushi back, it's raw fish."). It's nothing more than a bit of friendly snipping, though. That's what their relationship has become. Bucky is tentative to call it friendly, but there is no denying that there is warmth there. 

 

Natasha visits them a month into their stay at the Retreat. She's not the first to visit them- there was Clint, and Banner to take a look at Bucky's fitting (the scientist has done as much as he can, and Bucky is grateful for that)- but she is the first to visit who still carries heavy emotions associated with Bucky close to her heart. She tries not to call him James. He tries not to call her Natalia. Neither of them want to bring up the Red Room, but it hangs between them still, a weight they can't ignore. 

 

Luckily, they have Sam there to break the tension. Cooking together has become almost a tradition for him and Bucky, and Natasha fits easily between them. She's incredibly light on her feet, hands quick, eyes sharp.  It's almost painfully nostalgic to watch.

 

("The littlest ballerina", he used to call her. Bucky supposes she's not so little anymore.)

 

Bucky urges Sam to go to bed first. He protests, a bit, but Bucky insists that he and Natasha just need some time to catch up. And they do- catch up, that is, when Sam closes the bedroom door and leaves them alone in the living room. They talk about the weather. The Avengers. Modern times. The world is a curious thing these days, and it leaves them plenty to talk about. 

 

Small talk can only go so far, though. Natasha clutches the bag on her lap, knuckles white against the leather. Her lips are curled into a small smile, but it is a sad one. 

 

"You're looking better," she says, softly,  because Sam is asleep in the next room and neither wants to risk waking him.  Bucky hums in response, resting against the back of the couch. It feels odd, the way it presses his back straight . He normally slouches. 

 

Natasha draws the book out of the bag, holds it like it will bite her. Bucky holds it like it has already bitten him.

 

"Some in the U.S. Government wanted to brush up on their Russian," she explains, sipping at tea already cold. "I left them some more...  _ preferable _ , alternatives." The porcelain clinks against the glass of the table top. She never liked to use a saucer. "I haven't read it," she promises. "I have the Red Room. That's more than enough for me."

 

Bucky's fingers indent the leather of the journal. He's scared to open it. He doesn't want to know what's inside. He has to, though.  As painful as it is, this is a part of him that he can’t just ignore.

 

"Take the couch," he instructs distractedly as he meanders towards the porch. "I'll crawl in with Sam in a few minutes. I just want to take a peek at this. Just... Just for a little bit." 

 

When Natasha goes to sleep, Bucky is sitting on the porch facing the pond, book in his lap. When she and Sam wake up in the morning, he's in the exact same spot. Natasha quietly slips away, no doubt needed for bigger and better things. Sam quietly approaches Bucky. There's a distant look in the Winter Soldier's eyes, a resigned expression on his face. It takes longer than it should to get his attention, and even when he does, it's almost like Bucky isn't there. 

 

They burn the book, page by treacherous page, with a lighter over a platter from the cabinet. Sam can't read Russian, and he doesn't need to. The tears on Bucky's face tells the whole story. 

 

Sam has to pry the last page out of Bucky's hand, lights it with the remaining embers. He burns the cover too. The flames are quick to eat away at the old leather, at the star, until nothing but  ash remains. There's something symbolic about that, Sam supposes, fire devouring the memories of winter. He's not sure what to make of it though.

 

They make blueberry pancakes for dinner. Just because Bucky is down, Sam goes ahead and dumps the rest of the box of berries into the batter. He considers adding chocolate too, but that just seems too indulgent, and he would like some pancake with his filling, thank you. 

 

(If Bucky doesn't actually eat that much, Sam doesn't hold it against him. Bad memories often fill the stomach quicker than good food.)

 

Tonight, Bucky curls up on his left side, facing Sam, head tucked under Sam's chin, their legs tangled together. That in itself is strange, because Bucky normally won't lay on his fitting and never sleeps with his back to the door. He nuzzles at Sam's chest, though, arm warm where it is thrown over Sam's waist, fingers tickling the down feathers beneath the silk of the outer ones. It could be awkward. Sam doesn't let it be. He stubbornly rests his chin on top of Bucky's head, winds an arm around his waist and beds down for the night.

 

They sleep like that, sharing each other's warmth. It's the easiest sleep Sam's had in years. They wake, somehow, much closer than they had fallen asleep, Bucky's nose in the hollow of Sam's throat, head pillowed on the meat of Sam's arm. One of Sam's wings had stretched across them like a large, feathery blanket. Bucky would probably be picking feathers out of his hair for days. 

 

Sam takes a few, glorious moments to revel in the sensations. Bucky doesn't run as warm as he should ("Winter Soldier" indeed), so it's just the right temperature between them to lay in the early morning chill without a blanket. He breathes as evenly as a metronome. The usual lines of his face are gone. 

 

It's comforting to see Bucky so relaxed, to see no trace of the tension from the night before, not to wake up to sobs and tears and broken Russian. On one hand, Sam is glad he can't read Russian, doesn't know a single word of the book that caused so much pain. Natasha stole that book for a reason. Bucky probably burned it for the same. On the other hand, though, Sam wants to know what caused Bucky that kind of pain- to protect him, to help him heal. 

 

"I can hear you thinking," Bucky murmurs sleepily, breaths puffing against Sam's collarbone. "Stop it. It's too early for that."

 

Sam chuckles and moves to roll away. He's a bit surprised when Bucky's arm tightens around his waist, not letting him go, and he doesn't try again. Just withdraws his wing to tuck it against his back and pulls the blanket up so Bucky won't get too cold. Bucky hums happily, fingers twining into Sam's feathers. 

 

For a time, they just lay there, basking in the sunlight streaming in through the window like cats. Sam even dozes off a little bit, especially when Bucky started scratching at the skin beneath his feathers. His wings were fairly sensitive to all sorts of sensations. Pain is easy enough to block out, considering the life Sam had and does live. Gentle touches, though, aren't really something Sam experiences enough to get used to. It makes him melt like a cat. Sam runs his hands through Bucky's hair in return, just because he knows how fucking  _ good _ that feels.

 

Bucky whispers Sam's name, almost under his breath. Sam makes a questioning noise in his throat. They need to get up, he knows, but it's warm and it's comfortable and Sam doesn't want to. 

 

"Sam," Bucky whispers again, and he sounds wonderfully out of breath. When Sam looks down, Bucky is looking up at him with lidded eyes- dark, dark blue, like the middle of the pond Sam flies over every day. Their so calm, with a spark of fire and a lack of fear and-

 

The phone rings. Both of them start, half-way pushing away from each other. Sam's wings flare a bit before they thump against the wall. Bucky almost falls off the bed, flailing before he gives and and lets himself slump onto the floor. He doesn't even try to get up, just lies there on the floor and laughs as Sam fumbles for the phone. 

 

(It's a beautiful sound, Bucky's laugh. Sam tries not to get sidetracked by it, but he does stash it away. Just in case he never hears it again.)

 

The caller turns out to be Steve. And he's... he's agitated. Of course he is. If there's one thing Sam's learned about Steve in the short time they've been friends, it's that Steve _ hates _ the bureaucracy. A stickler for the "inherent rights of man", Captain America. Or, at least, just a man really tired of how corrupted and inefficient the government has become. 

 

Sam takes the call to the kitchen when Bucky goes to shower, puts it on speakerphone so that he can cook breakfast. The summit is apparently a clusterfuck at the moment, and that's putting it nicely. Talk about the Accords has simultaneously moved forward and gone  _ nowhere, _ mostly because no one can seem to agree as to where to draw the line. T'Challa isn't about to let Zemo go, a fact that has, "strangely", angered the U.S. government more than a lot more important discussions going on.

 

"I don't even want to talk about it right now, it makes me so angry," Steve admits, and he just  _ sounds _ so  _ frustrated _ . Sam makes a sound of sympathy in his throat and tries not to burn the eggs. "'Transparency' my ass. They never intended to inform us about their decisions until they were already made."

 

"If you ever thought otherwise, then you really haven't changed."

 

Bucky stands in the doorway, leaning on the frame, a familiar smile on his face- part unrestrained happiness, part bitter nostalgia. He didn't bother to dry off properly from the shower: his hair is leaving damp spots on his shoulders, and his shirt catches on wet skin when he moves to sit by the counter. Sam tries not to be distracted by it.

 

"Hey, Buck," Steve greets, and Sam's heart breaks a little at how  _ happy _ he sounds. "How are you?"

 

"Been better," Bucky admits, playing with an apple from the basket on the counter. hopefully he actually eats it this time, instead of bruising it and putting it back. "I guess Black Widow's little dance has them riled up?"

 

Steve sighs, and it's a heavy, tired thing. "She told you, huh? Thank goodness for that. I wasn't sure how I was going to-"

 

"Don't worry about it." Oh, there's that tone again. The "you shouldn't worry about it because it's me" tone that Bucky pulls off so well. Sam frowns and resists the urge to shake the spatula in his direction. He doesn't want to burn the eggs. Bucky just shrugs, takes a bite from the apple, turns his attention back to Steve. 

 

"I'm just so  _ frustrated _ . The Accords have stalled at the U.N., and they want to waste their time-"

 

"I'm a nuke. They would have been stupid to ignore the launch codes sitting on their laps. You know when we'll get to come back to the U.S.?"

 

"I don't know. A few weeks, maybe. A couple months." Steve sighs, sad, and Bucky lurches forward a bit as though he wants to give the man a hug through the phone. "Without the code, they can't control you, so now they don't want you anywhere near them. It's... well, it's a really clusterfuck, Buck." 

 

"Some things never change, right?"

 

They talk about lighter things over breakfast. Bucky's recovery (slow). The Avengers (good). It's sprinkled with inside jokes that maybe Bucky would have gotten at one point, but now his face just furrows in confusion. There's always a beat of silence following it, a beat that Sam tries his best to pick up quickly. They make new inside jokes, though. Plums. Steve and Bucky somehow know every old person in every nursing home. Sam is somehow related to every bird they see. It's a fun game. 

 

Bucky seems so much lighter when they end the call. There's an easiness to his smile, to his gait. It makes Sam want to smile to. It's... a bit of a strange feeling, to realize you're in love when you're already neck-deep. Because that's what Sam is: in love. With Bucky.

 

Holy shit, he's in love with James Buchanan Barnes. The realization hits him like a ton of bricks, and Sam just has to... stop, and think about it for a minute. Because he's in love with Bucky Barnes, and that's kind of a big thing, and he might be in too deep to pull himself out at this point. 

 

When he's distracted by the shift of the muscles of Bucky's back, Sam realizes that, holy shit, he's in  _ deep.  _

 

Bucky kisses like a blizzard, like a hurricane, like an _ inferno _ , and it completely takes Sam by surprise. Steve had told him about this, once- he'd been really drunk on some Asgardian mead that Thor had brought, and Sam had asked him about Bucky and Peggy and all that and, well... Yeah. He'd had gone waxing poetic about Bucky's kissing skills. And Sam had just kind of nodded along and sipped on his normal, "Midgardian" beer and kind of didn't believe what the old man was talking about. 

 

He should have. He  _ really _ should have. Because Bucky kisses like he needs Sam to breathe and he all but steals the breath out of Sam's lungs. He's overwhelmed, at first. Shock-still, eyes wide. Bucky's fingers are creasing the leather of his jacket so that he can pull them chest-to-chest, and Sam's still trying to figure out if he's dreaming or not when Bucky pulls away.

 

"I'm sorry. I should have-"

 

If Bucky kisses to steal the breath away, Sam kisses to  _ bruise _ , one hand tangled in Bucky's hair, the other sneaking along that patch of skin between the shirt and the pants. Like everything they do, it's a fight, a tussle, a contradiction, simultaneously ferocious and tender. It's slow and fierce, bitten lips and soothing laps. It's roughly shoving each other against walls and softly caressing against scarred and supple skin. It's intense, and Sam wouldn't have it any other way. 

 

They jack each other off on the couch, pants still on, Sam in Bucky's lap, wings half-spread for balance. It's filthy, sticky, skin and teeth and tongue on sweaty skin, and  _ fuck _ , Sam really wouldn't have it any other way. Bucky whines high in his throat, breathy,  _ desperate _ , when Sam licks his way into his mouth, twists his hand over the cap of Bucky's cock. It's a gratifying sound; Sam nibbles on the sharp of Bucky's collarbone to keep from chuckling. 

 

Bucky comes with a groan, teeth digging into the meat of Sam's shoulder, and it's the delicious spike of pain that sends Sam tumbling over the edge. He spills into Bucky's hand with a sigh. His wings are doing the funny shuddering thing that happens when his muscles tense and strain, and he pulls them tight against his back in hopes that Bucky doesn't notice.

 

"Don't," Bucky huffs, reaching out with a soiled hand and (thankfully) letting his fingers stop just before Sam's feathers. "Don't hide them. They're pretty." 

 

"Pretty". It's something Sam hears a lot, but it sounds different coming from Bucky. More genuine. Like it means something. Sam lets his wings out a little, trying to ignore the trembling in the hollow bones and strong muscle. Bucky wipes his hand off on his jeans (eww, that's not going to wash out) before reaching out and...

 

_ Oh. _ Sam shudders as Bucky runs a hand down the bone of his wing, smoothing all the sex-ruffled feathers in just the right way. It feels  _ good, sensual _ , in a way that Sam hasn't experienced before and  _ Jesus Fucking Christ, _ why hadn't he tried this before? Sam coos as Bucky pets his wings in long, broad strokes. He's practically melting in Bucky's lap, and  _ fuck _ , even though he's just come he's almost ready to go again. 

 

"That... that feels good, then?" Bucky asks, always considerate, and the rumble in his voice makes Sam  _ shiver. _ Sam nods enthusiastically, mouthing messily at the seam between metal and flesh to muffle his coos and moans. He feels the grinning kiss that Bucky presses to his temple. 

 

Bucky leans forward, pulls Sam's wing towards him in the same motion, and the noise Sam lets loose is  _ inhuman _ . It sends little shocks down his spine, Bucky mouthing at the joint of his wing, and when Bucky digs his teeth in it's like he's being electrocuted in the best of ways. Sam's hips jerk in a desperate search for friction, almost embarrassingly desperate.

 

"Holy shit," Bucky breathes. The awe in his voice is flattering; it leaves a warm feeling in Sam's chest, like sun-warmed honey. "Holy _ shit, _ Sam, you're incredible." 

 

Sam chuckles and rests his head against the dip of Bucky's shoulder, shuddering as his hand still wanders the feathery expanse of his wing. He needs a few moments, a few gulping breaths, before he can talk, and when he does it's breathy and  _ wrecked.  _

 

"Thanks," he says, almost jokingly, grinning against Bucky's skin. "You're pretty damn good too." 

 

"Damn good" is a bit of an understatement. Sam's no blushing virgin- he's had some wild,  _ weird _ sex before. But he hasn't actually tried this before, this wing thing, and no one in his memory has made him feel like _ this  _ before. 

 

Bucky digs his nails into the muscle of Sam's wing, and Sam has had  _ enough _ . He pushes away from Bucky with fluttering hands, praying to god he doesn't actually fall of the couch, and babbles right through Bucky's confused look. 

 

"Enough, enough. Jesus Christ, I needed you in me, like, yesterday."

 

It's a bit disappointing that Bucky can't pick him up, honestly; Sam's sure that he would have been able to had he had both arms, being all supersoldier, and that would have been  _ amazing. _ With one arm, though, their options are a little limited. Which is not to say that Bucky manhandling him into the bedroom with little pushes and growls is not really,  _ really _ hot. Because it is. Really.  _ Really _ hot. 

  
  


Sam has never been so aggravated at his wings in his life. The bed definitely isn't made for someone with a wingspan of almost three meters; either his wings his the head- and foot-board, or his wing slams against the wall when he loses control and flares them. Not exactly the most comfortable situation, for sure, and it's apparently not at all what Bucky wants either. 

 

There's that moment of panic when Bucky flips them, settling Sam pretty firmly on his hips, but the panic is more than chased away by the feeling of Bucky pressing right against his ass, hot and straining against his jeans. Fingers scramble against fabric and buttons in a desperate attempt to strip away the layers between them. 

 

(Bucky actually  _ tears  _ his shirt. Sam half wants to complain about it- it's not like he has an endless wardrobe, and he  _ liked  _ that shirt. He doesn't, though, for obvious reasons. He's a little busy.)

 

(He tries not to think of just who might have left the lube and condoms in the bedside drawer.)

 

There's a gentleness in everything Bucky does, sure, but there's definitely no patience. Sam whines when he's prepared far too quickly to really enjoy it, and when he lowers himself onto Bucky's cock the stretch is just on the side of too much. Greedy as he is, though, Sam's first distinct thought is _ not enough.  _

 

Fingertips dig into his hip, a thumb pressing into his femoral triangle, and Sam wills himself to take a few deep breaths. Bucky is not small by any means, and the stretch  _ burns _ . It burns in the best of ways, though, and all Sam wants to do is  _ move _ . It's not even like Bucky can really hold him down, not with just one hand. There's a command in the pressure, though, and Sam has always been good at following commands. 

 

He could have been held there for a few seconds, for a few minutes, for a few  _ hours, _ Sam really isn't sure. Eventually, though, Bucky does loosen his grip, just enough that Sam can roll his hips, and the friction is  _ glorious _ . Bucky fills him just right, just deep enough to rub against that spot that sends galaxies spinning behind Sam's eyes. Sam's competitive streak chooses then to raise its nasty little head, though, and he's  _ almost _ sure he can outlast Bucky.

 

_ Almost _ , until the first time Bucky thrusts up into him, and Sam fucking _ loses it _ . He bucks and whines, so desperate, so  _ close _ . Then Bucky grips a handful of his feathers, using it to pull himself up so he can whisper right into Sam's ear, all false promises and filthy suggestions and…

 

Sam's not entirely sure what kind of sound he makes when he comes. It's something low in his chest, not a moan, not a whine. Just pure, unrestrained pleasure. His wings snap open in a flurry of wind and feathers, and he's pretty sure he throws Bucky off balance, but he really doesn't have the head to mind because  _ holy shit.  _

 

A few minutes later, Bucky is rolling Sam off of him with a goodnatured huff. On one hand, they should probably go and clean up, because things are about to get sticky in the gross way real soon. On the other hand, though, Sam just wants to bask in that nice, fuzzy afterglow. Bucky makes the decision for the both of them, curling against Sam and clinging like a barnacle, grumbling that they can clean up in the morning, sheets be damned. 

 

They do clean up in the morning- rather early, actually, and rather quickly, because Sam receives a text from Banner that he'll be there in thirty, five minutes after he sends it, and there's  _ no way _ they're going to let anyone walk in on them looking like that. They manage to get halfway decent before he arrives, even changing the sheets in the bedroom, though there's no hiding the way Sam's wings are still ruffled and there are still feathers  _ everywhere _ . 

 

Banner takes one look around and smiles like he  _ knows _ . It's not the reason he's there, though. The reason he's there is all bio-plastic that mimics the color, elasticity, and feel of flesh, stretched over metal-carbonfiber bones. They put a lot of work into it, clearly, because it connects to the fitting of Bucky's shoulder with very little adjustment. Bucky just stares at it with this awed look in his eyes. He reaches out to touch the granite of the countertop, and the sound he makes is almost a sob.

 

"Touch sensors," Banner explains. "Top of the line technology, right there. It's not as sensitive as the human skin is, but it's pretty close." 

 

"It's wonderful," Bucky chokes out, and it sounds like it's pulled from his chest. It's half a sob, half a joyous laugh as he runs his new fingers across the cool of the countertop, the soft of his sweatpants, the warmth of the back of Sam's hand. "It's... It's amazing." 

 

(The muscles of Sam’s back shift under Bucky’s hands as they fly together: muscles Bucky doesn't know, probably can't name, definitely doesn't have, taking them up into the clouds where no one goes.)

 

_ "Never regret thy fall, O Icarus of fearless flight. _

_ For the greatest tragedy of them all is to never feel the burning light." _

  
_~Oscar Wilde._

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the friend who encouraged me to write this by more or less shouting "I want the smut" until I finished it. You were an inspiration. This one's for you.


End file.
